


Adore Adore

by fracturedvaels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, quasi-explicit sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3323453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracturedvaels/pseuds/fracturedvaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian finds he loves the South.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adore Adore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tralevite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tralevite/gifts).



> This was something I wrote over the weekend for Nissa who is a sweet pea and who loves fluff. I can't do fluff, I am TERRIBLE at fluff, but I tried for her.
> 
> Aaaass usual if you see any errors please let me know.

Dorian finds he loves the South.

Oh, there are annoying parts of it. It's so cold and muddy and rainy. And _cold_ , and mud and snow together is the nastiest thing he's ever seen. Moist and cold, cold and moist, every dripping soggy corner. Fucking quaint, really, if you liked mold in your boots. And it smells like wet dog - those are not things Dorian likes about the South.

He likes the snow, though, in areas where it never melts. Watching it from beside a fire, through glass; the snow is so lovely. And even on nights where it snowed all day and the clouds didn't clear till after the sun went down, the bright snow reflects the moon and everything is so pretty.

He likes apples. Apples don't grow in Tevinter, and Dorian has always had a taste for them. They put apples into everything in the South - pies, tarts, cakes, _wine_. He likes the wine made from it, the way it bubbles in his throat. It's not as hard as he's used to but it makes his eyelids heavy and helps him sleep.

And he likes Cullen.

No, not likes. _Adores._

Cullen is like the apples and the snow. Not cold, but beautiful and bright, and it's only in his darkest hours do can you see exactly how bright he is. And he's _soft_ , so soft; Dorian doesn't care how cold he can get, he wants to be buried in him, just _in_ him, forever.

And he's sweet. So sweet, like the apple cakes the cook churns out, like the apple wine the tavern sells.

Dorian has no qualms buying a bottle or two and taking it to the commander's office. He likes how Cullen gets when he's been drinking the wine, and how he tastes; the heat of his mouth and the sweetness of the apples. Dorian never gives him enough to cloud his judgment, to ruin their moments together, because there's few things that hurt quite as much as taking advantage of someone. Dorian wouldn't do that to Cullen, not now, not _ever_.

Dorian lets the wine loosen his darling's lips before he kisses them. He likes the softness of his mouth and how he presses his hips against Dorian's, how he feels loose and pliant under him.

Unlike Cullen, Dorian gets primal. He's no less gentle - especially for their first time, which Dorian has experience with, but Cullen is all nervous laughter and shaking hands. His skin is oversensitive from years of being touched only by rough hands; stupidly, poetically, Dorian equates his body to a temple that's been left to gather dust.

Dorian feels angry about that. Cullen is a religious experience, his body a shrine to be worshipped. Dorian covers his body in kisses - pays special attention to the soft and sensitive skin of his stomach, and to the tender flesh of his thighs (and everything, of course, inbetween them). The fingers of one Cullen's hands are twisted into his sheets, the knucles of the other stuffed between those delicious lips.

Dorian likes something else about the South: he likes being in it, but specifically, he likes being in Cullen. Cullen is inexperienced and winces, and a few tears leak from the corner of his eye - not sobs, not terror or regret, just discomfort. And Dorian kisses them away, melting when Cullen kisses back, too sweet and too hot.

Dorian does everything he can, uses everything in his power, to make it feel good - better than good - for the commander. He strokes his hair and his cheek, whispers distracting sweet words into his ear, runs a hand down his thigh. When Cullen goes to put his arms around Dorian's neck the mage dips his head down to make it easier. He rolls his hips gently, for as long as he can, until he hears Cullen's meek, " _Faster, please,_ " and obliges.

And he picks up a moderate pace, and deepens his thrusts, and builds up slowly. He takes his time; he wants to spend forever tangled with Cullen, drag it out, drive him wild. He keeps his pace arrythmic, slowing down when Cullen is close and leaving love bites on his neck and shoulders and collarbones when the blond throws his head back.

And more, he makes it about Cullen. About his body, about his pleasure; when he climaxes he goes quick, hard, and wastes no time spending his fading energy and attention on the body beneath him. Cullen doesn't even say Dorian's name when he cums, he cries the lord's name like it can forgive him, but it's Dorian's hair his hand is in when he does it, Dorian's shoulder his nails are dug into. It isn't the bloody fucking Maker that causes Cullen's toes to curl or his legs to kick and shake, it's not the Maker's cock in him or hands on him.

And Dorian is left watching the rise and fall of Cullen's chest; how sweet he is, his skin taunt and slick with sweat. He trembles and flickers like a flame. Dorian feels proud knowing he's the why, he's the reason - when Cullen looks up, exhausted, into his eyes, he beams down and he kisses him again.

And he still tastes apples, and he thinks, this is perfect. This is what I want. _This is where I need to be_. When he lays down next to Cullen and offers his open arms like he's offering sanctuary, he feels a warmth in his chest that he's only felt briefly once before.

Dorian finds he loves the South. He adores the South. And he will tear Corypheus' heart out himself if it means he gets to stay in the South forever, with Cullen.


End file.
